Alias Titled Life
by Rube
Summary: “Hmm…” the hat started, “yes, I think I know exactly where you’ll go…”


Title: Alias Titled Life

Author: Rube (rube@whoreofrohan.org)

Rating: PG

Summary: "Hmm…" the hat started, "yes, I think I know _exactly_ where you'll go…"

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and I make no profit from the use of them. This is purely for fun.

Author Notes: Dedicated to Kissaki, because she's Goth.

Severus Snape was a Goth. Of course, Severus Snape had never actually _seen_ a real Goth, but he'd seen some on muggle T.V. and figured it couldn't be that hard. What being a Goth really meant was a matter of great concern to Snape; looking good, wearing black, talking slow, and smoking fast clove cigarettes behind the stables so he wouldn't get caught, to be exact. 

Severus Snape was twelve years old, which meant he was starting first year at Hogwarts a whole year later than everyone else. Louisa and Gerald Snape had kept Severus in wizarding kindergarten a whole extra year, citing Severus' "slowly developing social skills" as the main reason why. Truthfully, the only reason Severus bit and spat at other children was because they sat on his head during recess. 

To make matters worse, the next year, during the summer, poor Severus was gifted with an enormous growth spurt, and showed up at first grade at least a head or two taller than everyone else. Every time he sat in the small circle of children, his tall, greasy head stood out of the crowd. "Snape," they'd say, in their little, whiny voices, "you're in my way! I can't see the blackboard!"

"I hate you," he'd shriek in response, and the teacher would rush to give him a Full Body Bind before he could sink his jagged teeth into someone's arm. 

But that was all behind him now. Severus Snape was a Goth; so Goth that he was having one of his cloves right outside of the Hogwarts Express, and blowing the smoke into the face of anyone who passed him. "Git," one sixth-year ventured to mumble, and Snape tried to stab his fag out on the boy's forehead. 

The Gryffindor prefect managed to stumble out of the way, and, terrified, he watched as Snape took a long drag. "Why, you simpleton," he started, but a coughing fit took him by surprise, "you should ahem know better than to mess with wheeze – " but the boy had dashed inside before Snape could finish. "Bugger," he muttered, and put the clove out on the side of the train. 

The final whistle sounded, and Snape checked to make sure his nanny had put all of his trunks away. He had seven, of course, and three were filled with his music collection alone. The rest were clothes (trunks four, five, six and half of seven) and the bloody annoying course books. "Alchemy for Beginners" didn't sound that interesting; he'd thumbed through it on the way to Kings Cross, and there wasn't one single spell for liquid eyeliner. Nothing in Charms, either. 

Sullen at the memory, which was surely indicative at the lack of truly useful information his schooling would involve, Snape boarded the train and took a seat in one of the back, empty compartments. He filed down one of his nails and hoped no one would consider joining him. If they did, with any luck, he could bore them with talk of "Sex Pistols versus David Bowie" and they'd leave. It certainly worked well on his parents.

"Excuse me, but you're in _my_ spot," a cold, haughty voice said, jerking him out of his reverie. "If you please?"

Snape peered up through melting eyeliner at whoever had dared to enter his space. Two boys that bore a striking resemblance to trolls flanked a smaller, blond boy wearing an argyle sweater and matching socks, and who looked to be around his age. "I'm sorry," he drawled, straightening up and playing with the cuff of his shirtsleeve, "I must be on the wrong train. I didn't realise this was a golfer's convention." Snape started to stand, choking with mirth, but the blond spoke up.

"Very funny, you," he snapped, "these happen to be tailored by Sir Cosmos himself. They're quite smart, if I do say so." 

"I didn't ask," Snape said, bemused. "And if you're wearing clothes made by someone with _that_ name, in _those_ colours, you shouldn't go around giving orders." It was lame, Snape had to admit, but he couldn't say much with the two other boys around. He fought back a memory of trying to breathe someone's ass, and gave a small shudder. 

"What's wrong with the colours?" the boy asked shrilly, glancing down at his sweater. "They're Slytherin colours!"

Snape studied him. "There's yellow in it," he pointed out. "That's so… not Goth."

"There's still black, silver and green," the boy insisted stubbornly. "_Slytherin_."

"Maybe," Snape answered distractedly, feeling rather proud of his black robes, black poet shirt, black trousers, black socks, black shoes and black boxers. At least his parents didn't make him suffer through the indignity of yellow. One could almost feel sorry for the blond boy, whoever he was. "In any case, I'm not leaving. Find another compartment or sit down." 

Snape hadn't meant the sitting down part literally, of course, and had only said it to make his point, but the blond and his goons took him seriously. After a quick glance to assess the cabin, Argyle-Boy plopped down in the seat opposite of Snape, right near the window, and his two henchmen followed suit. "So," the blond said, after Snape had lit another fag, "my name is Lucius. Lucius Malfoy."

Snape took three whole drags before he answered. "Snape. Severus Snape." He recognised the other boy now, and couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it the moment the smarmy bastard had said something. All Malfoys were short, blond and fond of ugly clothes. "I take it you're a first year as well?" he questioned, blowing smoke in Malfoy's face. 

"Yes," he choked, waving a tiny hand in front of his nose to dispel the smoke. "And I'm betting on being sorted into Slytherin. There isn't a better house, or so father says. What about you?" Malfoy sounded proud, and Snape could see why, as he'd been hoping for Slytherin too. Slytherin was the best house at Hogwarts by far; it was in the _dungeons_. The _dungeons_. Nothing was Gothier than that.

"Slytherin," he responded, putting out his fag and lighting yet another. Someone told him he shouldn't smoke more than a pack a day, but Snape didn't mind the blood. 

"I would _die_ if the hat put me into Gryffindor," Malfoy declared, and Snape raised an eyebrow. 

"You shouldn't joke so about Death. Death is the Haven that is given to us after we've suffered through Hell, alias titled Life, and we've known agony, hate, despair and loneliness. Only then are we worthy of Death." 

There was a long silence. "I see," Malfoy said awkwardly.

"You know," Snape said, imploring Malfoy with his eyes to try and understand the deep meaning of his words, "it's sort of like 'how can you know love without knowing hate?' Actually, it's really like that, when you think about it. Only not."

"Yeah," Malfoy agreed. "Why are you doing that thing with your eyes?"

Snape glowered. 

"Is it an eyelash? Do you want me to get it for you?"

"I hate you," Snape said, and bit hard around the butt of his fag. 

---

Snape was probably the only student in all of Hogwarts not wearing the regulation robes, and was standing right in front of the platform that held the sorting hat, smoking a clove. Everyone was giving him at least a yard's worth of leeway, which Snape found rather nice. The hat had finished its ridiculous song, and Snape was waiting for his turn, outwardly the very picture of Goth. 

"Malfoy, Lucius," a woman called. She looked rather young to be a teacher, and weirdly enough, she too looked Goth. Her long, dark hair was tied back with a black satin ribbon, and her robes were as sinister as his. He smiled at her winningly from around his clove. 

"Slytherin!" the hat called, after a moment of deliberation. Snape would bet money that it nearly said Gryffindor, because Malfoy went all red and meeped something that sounded like 'mummy.' 

"Potter, James," the Goth teacher said.

Snape nearly choked. Potter!? Not the same Potter he'd gone to kindergarten with? Stricken, he watched as a lanky boy with completely unGoth, messy hair and blue eyes made a beeline for the chair, and shoved the hat unceremoniously onto his head. "Hey, Sirius," he said to someone in the small crowd, waving, and Snape gulped. So it was _that_ Potter, and Black was here too, to make matters worse.

"Merlin," he mumbled, hands shaking as he fiddled with his clove, "why can't his mother just drown him? You know she must want to." 

He snuck a glance at Black, who was waving back at Potter, and remembered recess. Black noticed him staring and smiled quite evilly back at Snape, who tried to edge in between the two trolls who'd been with Malfoy on the train. Black mouthed something that looked like "death to your mom," and cheered when Potter was sorted into Gryffindor.

Finally, "Snape, Severus," was called, and Snape took the stairs in an eager and shamefully non-Goth way. He perched himself delicately on the edge of the stool and lifted the hat onto his head. "Ugh," he grunted, wrinkling his nose, "I smell Potter." He hoped no one had heard him.

"Hmm…" the hat started, "yes, I think I know _exactly_ where you'll go…" 

Snape's nervousness melted into cool, calm and collected Gothness. Yes, Slytherin. The _dungeons_, where he could read Plath and Bronte in peace, even feel at home in the ambiance. 

"Hufflepuff," the hat shouted, and Snape's clove fell onto his robes and nearly caught fire.

"What?" he shrieked, yanking the hat off. "_What_?"

"Mr. Snape, please take your seat," the teacher ordered.

He looked over at the Hufflepuff table and tried not to have a panic attack. _Panic attacks are **not **Goth_, he told himself, but it didn't matter what was Goth and what wasn't! He was in Hufflepuff, the house of retards and dreadfully happy people who liked collecting stamps.

"Yes ma'am," he said, trying not to cry. Dejected, he dragged his feet over to the Hufflepuff table, and sat down between a girl with her hair in pink ribbons and a boy with one eyebrow. 

"Hi, Sev!" one of them said. "Welcome to Hufflepuff!" 

Snape looked down the table to notice a fat ghost eating a chicken leg and apparently oblivious to the fact that he was _dead_ and therefore couldn't _eat_. "Yeah," he said, lighting another clove and getting ash in his pumpkin juice. "Thanks."


End file.
